Silence, Swill and Screams
by NongPradu
Summary: My submission for the UnGen "It Started With Fire" summer fic contest. Three different POVs regarding the night of the fire. Rated for John's potty mouth.
1. Ghost in my Throat Dean

February, 1984.

Dean

Daddy's sleeping. He sleeps a lot and smells funny and cries when he thinks no one's around but I hear him and it makes me wanna cry too. I miss Mommy. She went away with the Fire Man and Daddy says she's gone now and won't ever come back, and I wonder what I did to make her not want to come back. I miss her so much it makes me ache, and I try not to cry but sometimes I do. At night I do, when I'm curled up with Sammy and Mommy doesn't come to put me back in my bed. I cry when Sammy cries and Mommy doesn't come to pick him up and shush him with "You Are My Sunshine." She always sings that to me when I'm crying and it always makes it better.

It's scary here in this place that's not our home. I miss my room and my toys and our backyard. I miss the swingset and the sandbox at the park across the street. But most of all I miss Mommy. And I miss Daddy too – 'cos he's different since Mommy went away and sometimes it feels like he went away too and a new Daddy took his place.

We're supposed to go see a lady tomorrow, Daddy said, to help us 'take care of things.' I'm supposed to talk with her about the fire but I'm really scared and I don't want to. I still got a voice, but I sure am scared to use it. I'm ascared of a lot of things that I never was ascared of before. Like fire.

Fire is bad. _Badbadbadbadbad_. It's hot and loud and makes you cough and choke and makes you have to leave your house and never come back. And sometimes fire comes out of mommies just like it comes out of matches – but I bet nobody would believe me if I said so. I saw...

I don't like to think about fire. Or our house. Or the Fire Man. He smiles like a friendly monster and says, 'Hey there, Deano,' like he's a friend but he's not. He's like the monster in the closet and under the bed: all dark and scary and waiting in my doorway. 'Where are your angels?' he says and I 'member Mommy just said angels are watching over me so I looked all around but didn't see them either. Then he wasn't there anymore, and I thought maybe I was dreaming but I was awful scared. I pulled my blankets over my head and curled up real small into a ball and hoped he wouldn't find me if he came back. But then I just got too scared, and right then I wanted my Mommy.

But when I checked for her she wasn't there. Both Mommy and Daddy weren't in their bed. The scared feeling like I had to pee didn't go away, and I 'membered the dark man in my room and I thought maybe it wasn't a dream and maybe he came to take my Mommy and Daddy away. That's when I heard Mommy scream.

Daddy says I got to be real brave for Sammy 'cos Sammy misses Mommy too. I'm ascared of that Fire Man coming back to get Sammy so I keep watch at night. Also, I don't wanna sleep alone in case he comes back for me, either. I don't wanna burn up on the ceiling.

I should probably tell Daddy that the Fire Man knew my name and said 'hello' but I don't wanna in case he gets mad at me. He gets real mad sometimes when he's drinking his whiskey and then sometimes he breaks stuff and cries and says he's sorry Mary and 'get to bed, Dean!' and I bet he'd be sure mad if I told him this. 'You gotta look after Sammy' he tells me, every day, and I think it's probably my fault now that Mommy burned up because I wasn't looking after Sammy when the Fire Man came. I was trying to hide under my covers when I was s'posed to get a grown-up.

And now Mommy's gone. Daddy says she's... she's _dead_. And dead is when you go real still and stop moving like when our goldfish at preschool died and floated in its bowl and went belly-up and didn't never move again. And Mrs. Jenkins said that the fish was in heaven with the angels and I guess that's where Mommy must be too except instead of floating in a bowl with her belly up I bet she's glowin' like campfire ashes and I wish I was in heaven too.

But instead I'm here, so terrible afraid and I know I gots to just be real quiet. When the monster's under your bed you're s'posed to be quiet so it won't hear you and can't find you. I hope that he never finds us again and that Daddy can keep us safe.

Daddy's awake now and he's stumblin' around a bit and I can hear the empty bottles clanking as he cleans up some stuff in the kitchen. It's a real small kitchen, not nice and clean like the one at home, and Daddy looks so sad when he turns around and sees me here. He smiles but it's not a happy smile, and he waves me over to come see him and I'm so glad 'cos my tummy hurts from thinking about Mommy and the Fire Man and I am trying so hard not to cry.

So I run over to him and it feels so good when he wraps those big strong arms around me, even though his skin smells sour and his chin is scruffy and hurts my face a bit.

"_God, Dean_," he whispers in my hair. "I miss you, kiddo. I know you're in there somewhere."

And I nod and squeeze tighter and think how silly Daddy is. I'm right here – I didn't go anywhere.


	2. A Tear in my Beer John

John

I want a drink so badly my hands shake as I drive the tiny plastic knife into the jar of peanut butter, smearing copious amounts on stale bread that I know Dean will eat without complaint. He never complains. Never says a word actually. Just sits and watches me with those big eyes of his, so many questions in them that I can't answer so I just turn away and drown myself in the bottom of a bottle.

Father of the fuckin' year, right here.

I used to think I was a good father. Good husband too. No one would ever say I was rich, or charming, or anything special, really. But God, I loved my wife. And those two beautiful boys that she gave to me are all that I have left of her. And I just let her die. Someone, or some_thing_, came into our house and…

Drinking numbed the pain fractionally, but it couldn't burn away the image of my Mary on the ceiling, pleading wordlessly, seeping blood onto baby Sammy below before she burst into flames that would inevitably consume her and most of our house. I couldn't drink that away with Moonshine, even though I tried.

Most days I run the whole gamut of emotions, from quiet and brooding, to sulky and petulant, to weeping and gnashing my teeth, to enraged and murderous. My moods swing on a dime without provocation. The most random things set me off: a woman smiling at me as I pass her on the street; the Impala rumbling to life as I turn the keys in the ignition; a song on the radio; changing Sammy's diapers; making Dean a barely edible peanut butter sandwich on stale bread. Drinking only makes the highs and lows worse.

I tried telling myself that I imagined what I saw, that it somehow wasn't real, was evidence of a psychotic break from losing my wife. But I know what I saw. My wife, my beautiful Mary, was pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from a deep gash in her belly, and she burned up as if consumed by the very flames of Hell.

I know what I saw. I couldn't make that shit up if I tried.

But the truth is a bitter pill to swallow, you see, and I've had a few months to mull it over, taste it in my mouth and see how palatable it is. In the end I decide that it tastes like bile and ashes, but I sure as hell can't run from it. I may be a no-good mechanic, son of a mechanic, but I'll be damned if I'll ever be a coward. Something killed my wife and it did it right under my fucking nose. If it could take her, it could take my boys too. In fact, I'm not so sure it wasn't after them in the first place. I mean, Sammy's nursery...

So I've made an appointment to go see this psychic, Missouri Moseley. From what I've heard she's the real deal: can predict all sorts of shit that turns out to be true. She also is said to be something of a mind-reader, can pick thoughts out of peoples' heads and read 'em like anyone else would do with the Sunday newspaper. I'm hoping she can help me with Dean.

My boy hasn't spoken a word to me since I told him his Mama wasn't coming home. He'd been crying for her, a night or two after the fire, this god-awful keening sound with desperate sobbing late into the night, and that set Sammy off, and the both of 'em crying and me losin' my mind with grief. God forgive me, I yelled at him to stop his damned cryin'. _Winchesters don't cry, Dean! Your mother's gone. She's not coming back!_

I think my soul might have withered in me and died when his sweet little face went from crumbled anguish to this haunted, blank, empty stare. He sucked in a quivering lip and took a hitched breath, this tiny sigh escaping him as he sucked his thumb into his mouth and went silent. At the time I was disgustingly relieved, thinking I'd finally shut him up.

Now three months later he hasn't said a fucking word. Not one.

I try coaxing him back to me, force myself to play games with him, take him to the park when all I want to do is get blind drunk and pass out for a few days. Dean's hand feels so small in mine when I lead him to the slide. He just stands there and looks at it like he's seeing a slide for the first time, or seeing something familiar with new eyes. His eyes fall to the ground and he shakes his head. No slide for Dean, then.

He does let me push him on the swing, but I can't tell if he's having fun or not. His floppy blonde hair flies on the wind and again I think of Mary as her long blonde tendrils curled up with smoke, the acrid smell of burnt hair stinging my nostrils. And just like that, playtime at the park is fucking over.

Dean eases himself silently into the Impala and leans over to peer down at his baby brother in his car seat. Sam blinks up at him, his button nose crinkling as he bestows on his big brother a dimpled, gummy smile. I watch intently as Dean's solemn face twitches at the corners of his mouth, and I think a hint of his angelic smile has just peeked out. I'd give anything to see him smile again.

Which is why I need to talk to this Missouri psychic woman. I pray to God that she can help me, because if she can't I think I'll lose my fucking mind. Losing Mary has drained me of all the light that ever shone on me, and this dank, dark hole I've fallen into is no place for children. Sammy will adapt 'cos he's a baby and he doesn't know any different, I guess. But Dean? He knows what life's supposed to be like, knows that he's lost something, knows there's something missing.

I worry that maybe he saw something, too. I don't know how long he'd been standing in the hallway before he called my name, and I hope to God he didn't see his mother burning on the ceiling. His silence, though, along with that haunted, dark look in his eyes, like all his innocence was torn away by greedy black fingers stripping him naked, makes me think he probably did.

This feeling of helplessness is so overwhelming that I feel like I'm drowning in it. My wife gone. My boys motherless. My eldest son traumatized and mute. I miss Dean's sunny smile and mischievous ways. He's always been such a presence, demanding attention without ever really asking for it. I'd always thought I was going to have my hands full with him with the trouble he'd stir up. Digging in the neighbour's garden, filling all of his mom's shoes with mud because she'd fallen asleep (being heavily pregnant with Sam at the time) and forgotten to take him to the park. I remember him biting a little kid at playschool and being made to sit in the corner. I'd had to spank him when he got home.

But I'd take him full of piss and vinegar, angelic smile and devil on his shoulder and all, over this haunted, mute changeling that's taken his place. I know he's in there somewhere – I can see it in his eyes sometimes when he looks at me, like the light's still burning bright, but he's shielding it with a tiny hand, protecting it from the gale-force winds working to blow it out. My sweet baby boy's in there somewhere. I just don't know how to coax him out.

I suppose Dean's not the only one that's changed. I look at my own face in the mirror sometimes and see a stranger looking back at me. The last three months have aged me: I'm worn and tired and haggard-looking when I once would have thought myself a bit of a handsome devil. Not so now. All I see is a shell of a man, dark eyes framed by darker brows set in a permanent scowl. When I'm not brooding and looking pissy I'm on the opposite end of the spectrum, a few lip-jiggles away from bawling like a baby.

And I know this quivering pile of flesh is not the daddy Dean remembers. Sometimes when he looks at me it's like he's looking _for_ me. Behind the whiskey and the curt orders for him to keep Sammy occupied while Daddy watches TV (which is code for 'drinks himself stupid'), behind the cry-baby and the angry-bear – behind all of that is Dean's daddy. He's looking for me as desperately as I'm looking for him. We just don't know how to meet in the middle.

This Mosley woman's going to have to work some kind of miracle. I need her to help me find a way back to my son because I just can't bear to lose him too. And more importantly, I need her to tell me what the hell happened three months ago in Sammy's nursery. All my hopes are hinging on this woman being able to turn on the light for me, give me some answers about the thing that came into my home and killed my wife. I have to know what's out there so I can protect what's left of my family. Talking or mute, traumatized or happy as a clam, Dean needs me to protect him and Sammy. I will not fail my family again.

I made the mistake of telling my business partner Mike about what I saw – what really happened to Mary – and he started spewing off about post traumatic stress and therapy. He's been pushing me to get Dean in to see a specialist since my boy went mute, and he's made more than a few off-hand comments about the frequency of my drinking and 'the boys needing a father.' If I'm not careful he's gonna call CPS on me.

But I'll be long gone before that ever happens. I'm ready to run, can feel the slow burn of wanderlust lighting a fire in my gut, and it's only a matter of time before I pack up my kids and take them as far away from here as possible. If this Moseley broad can confirm to me that the thing that killed my wife was… well, something _unnatural_, some kind of monster (as I suspect it is), then I need to get my kids as far away from Lawrence as possible. I've got to keep them safe so that that thing can't ever find us, can't ever take them away from me.

The psychic is my last hope to protect my family.


	3. The Memories Aren't Mine Missouri

_Missouri_

The moment the phone rang I knew something big was coming. It was just like a flash of light, a series of images running so fast through my mind's eye that I couldn't pick one out from another, as my hand hovered over the receiver to answer. A young father seeking a consultation. John Winchester, by name; mechanic by trade. We made arrangements to meet on a Tuesday morning.

I sit on the couch in the parlour and wait, my hands sweaty and my stomach fluttering with butterflies. Anticipation is so heavy upon me it's like a thick wooly mantle draped around my shoulders, stretching my spine instead of bending it, so that I feel compressed and pulled in my own body. I just want to get this over with.

The loud rumble of an engine sounds from the sidewalk out front and I hold my breath. They're here on time, as I knew they would be. I hear a car door creak loudly and I force myself not to peek out the window to catch a glimpse of him and his boys. I want the impression to be spontaneous and unclouded by my own thoughts and judgments. I want it to hit me with the full impact of the situation, their thoughts and feelings coming at me without any filters of my own. So I don't look. I don't watch the young father prying his two small children from the car. I don't watch them making their way along the cobblestone path to my front door. I don't get up in anticipation of the doorbell ringing. I wait. My knee jumps out a steady rhythm and I resist the urge to bite my nails.

When the doorbell rings I manage to count three seconds before I make any move to stand. No way am I going to scuttle over to the door like some kind of jumped up fangirl. Calm and easy does it. That's what my grandmammy always used to say.

Even so, before I know it my hand is reaching for the door knob and I'm opening the door. I gasp when all my senses are assaulted by the crashing waves of emotion and memory that barge through my open door. Before I've even seen them I see fire and blood and darkness; I see long blonde hair curling in flame and a baby crying; I hear frantic screams of a young man whose world is ending: _'Mary! Mary!'_ I hear a little boy calling for his daddy, and the authoritative reply, _'Take your brother as fast as you can. Now Dean, go!'_

And then I look up into the face of John Winchester.

Every detail of that night is written upon his face, in the fathomless deep darkness of his brown eyes, in the lines of his mouth, in the set of his brow. He looks frightened, and a little angry, as he scrutinizes my face with his stern gaze. I take note of the cherub-faced baby in his arms, smiling in that matronly way all women are wont to do when they see a baby as cute as this one. I wonder off-handedly where the other child is, until I notice a tiny hand gripping the denim at the knee of John Winchester's pant leg.

"Hello," the young father says to me after an awkward pause. "We have an appointment for this morning. I'm –"

"John Winchester," I supply. "And this must be baby Sammy." The name is coming at me from all directions: from the father in whose arms the infant is snuggling soundly, from the baby himself, who seems to have a sense of his own name and his own place in the small, broken family, and especially from the tiny figure cowering behind his father's large form. I coo briefly at the baby and am happy to see that he responds with a happy gurgle and a bright, gummy grin.

"So that leaves…" I drawl, trying to peek around the lumbering man and just catching the slightest flash of blonde hair and wide hazel eyes before they're buried in denim.

"Dean," I say proudly, hearing the name on his father's lips before he's spoken it.

The man is eying me skeptically as I stand at full height and return my gaze to him, his expression clearly conveying that he's not impressed with my having guessed his sons names.

"Well, don't just stand there!" I order, feeling the time for standing in doorways has long since passed. It's rude to lurk in doorways. "Come on in."

I lead them to the parlour and watch intently as John seats himself uncomfortably on the couch, baby Sammy still nestled snugly in the crook of his arm, while Dean clamors onto the couch and buries himself in his father's side, his tiny arms wrapping around his father's middle and his head resting against his father's chest.

They're cute kids. Sammy's got that Gerber baby perfection with those dimpled cheeks and big, wide eyes. Dean would be a beautiful child but for the solemn face and haunted eyes. And the hair – the hair is hilarious, like 15th Century paige boy hair and Lord if that doesn't make him look goofy as all hell.

"So what brings you here, Mr. Winchester?" I ask sweetly, though I already have the answer. This family's been touched by death, and from the confusion rolling off of the father in waves, it's a bit of a mystery. Not your standard fire.

"My wife…" John struggles, unconsciously drawing his children closer. "There was a fire…"

Now that he's preparing himself to talk about it my mind is stabbed by the image of a woman on the ceiling, her mouth open in a silent scream, abdomen slashed open, blood spilling onto a crib below. And then fire. Fire everywhere. Fire consuming like a ravenous beast.

I lay a hand on my chest and take a few deep breaths to steady myself. This isn't any ol' kind of reading I'm doing now. John Winchester hasn't come to commune with his dead wife or to find out if she was cheatin' on him while she was alive. Oh no. He wants to know how that pretty woman ended up on the ceiling. He wants to know who – or what – put her there.

Jesus save me, I don't know the answer.

"I see…" I reply slowly.

I don't even know where to begin, and there's a part of me that's afraid to even attempt to take this on. Their tragedy is their burden to carry, not mine: I know this instinctively, and yet I feel myself being drawn into it, into them. Those dark, pleading eyes of the handsome widower before me are like screaming sirens, calling me to his cause, begging for me to give him the answers he seeks. _'I'm barely holding on,'_ his eyes tell me. _'I'm losing my damned mind!'_ they say desperately.

But still I hesitate.

'_You're fat,'_ a tiny voice rings out in the recesses of my mind, and I jump slightly and notice that the little Paige Boy is looking at me, hazel-green eyes peering up at me from beneath long lashes. Dean looks somewhat awe-struck, gazing at me with something like wonder and possibly mild disgust.

'_You have biiiiiiig boobies,'_ he says, and I narrow my eyes at him and give him a stern look.

He startles and immediately buries his face in his father's armpit.

'_ShecanhearmeShecanhearme!'_ his little mind whispers in a panic, and I see his tiny hands clutching at his Daddy's shirt. John immediately tenses and wraps an arm protectively around his little boy.

"What is it?" he asks his boy, and then turns angry, accusing eyes on me. "What did you do to him?"

Now I've never been one to be intimidated, but this man could scare the panties off a nun with the force of his glare alone. I don't get the sense that he's a mean man, but there's something fierce about him where his family's concerned: he'd torture, maim, and kill for his boys.

"Calm your foll-ass self down," I warn him, and he has the grace to look contrite after my chastisement. "I didn't do nothin' to your boy. He just got a little too loud with his thoughts is all – which aren't very nice, by the way," I admonish, noticing that those hazel-green eyes are peering up at me in wonder again, blinking owlishly as little Dean chews nervously on his bottom lip.

'_Nobody can hear me,'_ Dean's voice filters through the air, disbelieving and more than a little frightened. _'It's s'posed to be safe in here 'cos the monsters can't hear me!'_

"Oh sugar," I assure him, not bothering to explain to his Daddy what I can hear. "Ain't nobody gonna hurt you here with old Missouri and your Daddy watchin' over you."

Dean peers up at his father for confirmation, a question in his eyes, and John nods, giving his boy a reassuring squeeze.

"You're safe, Ace," John says solemnly. "I'm not gonna ever let anything happen to you or your brother. I'm gonna protect you."

Dean looks down and peers hesitantly at his baby brother, then back up at his father. He's so uncertain, so afraid, that I can almost hear him murmuring in his head _'whataboutMommyshediedandtherewasfireanditalmostgotSammy!'_ His haunted eyes turn back to me, afraid that I've heard his thoughts again, afraid that he's broadcasting his silent signal, his most private thoughts.

"Did you see what happened to your Mommy?" I ask Dean, and am breathless when I see the child's eyes shutter closed, a thick, heavy wall emerging from deep within this little boy's soul to barricade him from the world.

He shakes his head no, but I know that that's a lie. I can't hear what he's thinking – he's blocked me out somehow – but I can see from the pain and terror and guilt in his eyes that he saw a great deal the night of the fire. To confirm my suspicions, Dean's eyes subconsciously flash up toward the ceiling, as if expecting to see his mother's burning image there. He lowers his eyes slowly, staring at his tiny feet, and I watch as a few rogue tears spill silently down his lightly freckled cheeks.

John didn't miss the upward journey of his son's gaze, and he turns to me with a question in his eyes. _Oh God no!_ I hear him screaming inside his own head. _Tell me he didn't see her...?_

I can only nod, confirming his worst fears. Dean watched his mother burning, watched her last terror-filled moments on earth as she was consumed by flame.

I think my heart might be breaking as I watch the widower's face crumble, his nostrils flaring and his lip trembling as he stares at Dean's floppy blonde hair and mourns the loss of his child's innocence. A rough hand reaches out to pet through the long strands and Dean's tiny frame leans into the touch, seeking out comfort and security in a world riddled with monsters that are now all too painfully _real_.

'_God, Mary – I need you!'_ John's anguished voice cries out to the heavens, and I imagine every psychic within a hundred mile radius is hearing that call. The man's pain is so all-consuming it would take me to my knees if I weren't already sitting.

"I am so sorry for your loss," I offer lamely, knowing it won't help but feeling I should be saying something to salve the hurt.

Dean leans his head back against his father's chest and looks at me intently.

'_Not lost,'_ I hear clear as day. _'The Fire Man took her.'_

"My wife isn't lost," the father corrects me, his mind going in the exact same direction as his son's had moments ago. "Someone... or something came into our house and killed her. Pinned her to the fucking ceiling and..." he gulped. "Burned her."

I nod, trying to reach out with my senses, feeling out with snaking tendrils of thought to light on any remnants of whatever touched the Winchesters that night, trying to grasp onto an image, a smell, a touch – anything that will lead me toward the truth. But all directions lead to darkness: all-encompassing, smothering, absolute darkness.

"Evil," I whisper, hand on my chest to still my racing heart.

Dean squeezes in closer to his Dad, laying a tiny hand protectively over his baby brother's heart, as if to shield him from that darkness. He's seen it, I think. I don't know how, but he saw it and it left him unharmed.

'_Where are your angels?'_ I hear the ghost of a memory whisper inside my head. Dean is trembling and shaking his head imperceptibly, banishing that memory, trying to push it out of his mind. Denying its existence.

"We'll need to go to your house," I inform John without preamble, and at this both John and Dean's heads snap up to look at me, both horrified at the very prospect of returning to the scene of blood and fire and death.

"Some time later," I clarify, indicating the children. "They don't need to be there."

John nods grimly and pries his eldest's clingy fingers from his clothing so that he can readjust the baby in his arms as he stands. In an instant Dean is on his feet, standing up on the couch and grasping at his father's arm desperately, pulling at him to come closer, to not leave. He's shaking his head no – _no no no no no_ – his breathing deep through flared nostrils, and the tiniest squeak of protest emerging from his closed throat.

'_Don't go Daddy!'_ his voice shrieks inside my head. _'Don't go back and get burnded by the fire! Don't go don't go don't go!'_

"We're not going now," I assure him, though I might as well be speaking only within my own mind for all the attention either Winchester pays me.

"What's the matter, Dean?" John queries, landing one massive paw on top of that ridiculous blonde hair.

Dean peers up with beseeching eyes, his tiny rosebud lips trembling with unshed tears.

'_Winchesters don't cry,'_ I hear the boy chastising himself even as his heart sobs brokenly. _'I won't cry but Daddy please don't leave me and Sammy! Don't go back there where Mommy got killeded!'_

"He doesn't want you to go to the house, John," I explain.

"It's okay," John whispers soothingly. "I won't go back there. It was just an idea, okay. I won't go back there if it means that much to you. I promise."

Dean visibly relaxes, a tiny sigh of relief escaping him. But John's body is tight like a live wire, his muscles jumping in anticipation. His dark eyes meet mine and he nods. _'We'll go later,'_ I hear him saying, and I don't allow myself to shake my head in disappointment.

'_Oh John,'_ I think sadly, knowing that this is the first of many lies to come – all in the name of keeping his boys safe.

"Is he...?" John asks me skeptically, his eyes traveling to Dean, who is now standing on the floor at his Daddy's side, tucked safely against his leg again.

"He'll be fine," I reply, trusting that much to be true. That little boy may be traumatized, but he's definitely still in there. "He's just coping the best way he knows how."

'_Daddy I wanna go now,'_ Dean's mind whines impatiently. _'I don't like this fat lady. She's nosy and stinky and wants you to get burnded up!'_

"Who you callin' stinky, Dean Winchester?" I demand in a high pitched, feigned affronted voice. "You got somethin' to say to me boy, you best say it out loud 'stead of hidin' behind your Daddy."

The boy's eyes widen with shock, big as saucers, as his tiny mouth opens in a perfect 'O' of surprise. But then the devil on his shoulder whispers in his ear and I see his eyes harden as the flint strikes a spark inside him, and I'll be damned if he doesn't narrow his tiny brow and give me the stink eye.

"Your Daddy's perfectly safe," I promise him. "Ain't no monsters gonna burn him up."

He doesn't believe me, that much is plain. Instead he looks up again, wanting his father to confirm what I've just told him.

"Dean, you gotta be brave, okay son?" John says, prying those tiny fingers from his jeans and pulling the little boy out at arm's length so that he can crouch down and look his son in the eye. "Missouri's gonna help me find out the truth about what happened to your Mom. She's gonna help me find out who did it so that I can keep you and Sammy safe. So that I can protect you both."

He adjusts Sam in his arms before laying a hand on his eldest's shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

"Then I'm gonna track it down and I'm gonna kill it," John explains and I could smack the man for saying something like that to such a small child, but Dean doesn't seem in the least perturbed. In fact, he seems heartened by it.

'_Can I help?'_ I hear his little voice ask in my mind, not daring to utter the words aloud. _'I wanna protect Sammy!'_

"So I need you to be brave," John goes on. "You gotta help me look after Sammy so we can get this done. Whadya say, soldier? You gonna help me keep this family safe?"

Dean nods solemnly and remains tellingly silent in his own head. This is a deciding moment – a turning point in this tiny child's life. This is the moment when I see him embracing destiny, violence and death sidling up next to him to take him into a cold embrace. The blood rushes from my toes to my brain, flushing hotly through my ears, and I hear with spine-chilling clarity the sound of lips against the unsuspecting child's forehead. The kiss of death.

And little baby Sammy chooses that moment to gurgle loudly, squealing something incomprehensible but undoubtedly very important and kicking his chubby legs wildly in his father's arms. John grins, warm and wide and grateful. It's jarring to me, the sudden yank of the present moment tugging at my apron strings, drawing me back to the now in the face of what I've seen, what I've just learned. The young father is oblivious, too proud of his brave young son for embracing the life about to be thrust upon him to notice that he's just condemned them all. He's too absorbed in the cherub-faced infant in his arms, whose sweet innocence I see being burned away by years of prolonged exposure to hardship, evil, and death.

Death which I now see chases all three remaining Winchesters like a spurned lover.

"Sammy," Dean sighs – _aloud_ – and both John and I stare in amazement at the tiny blonde head turned toward the gurgling infant, a smile of serene contentment gracing that sweet, angelic face. Tiny fingers stroke gently through tufts of golden brown hair, and the baby smiles so openly, so brightly, that I think my heart might break.

"'m gonna look after you, little brother," Dean whispers before leaning in to place a chaste kiss on baby Sammy's forehead. It's a promise. A vow.

John's massive paw pulls the boy to his chest, nearly crushing him against the baby in his arms. Luckily neither of the younger Winchesters seems to mind, and I suddenly feel like an intruder in my own home as I watch the very intimate, private moment of reconciliation between a father lost, a son hidden, and an infant unable to verbalize at all the loss that has so completely devastated the small family. They cling to each other as a drowning man clings to a life preserver. John's strong arms envelope the children in a fierce, possessive, protective embrace, while Dean's tiny arms attempt to tuck both himself and Sammy into the protective shadow of their larger-than-life father. It is Sammy who both seals and ends the moment by emitting a single squeak, his tiny fingers fisting into blonde floppy hair to give an insistent and painful tug.

"OW!" Dean howls in pain, and just like that the Winchesters are pulled back into the world to rejoin the land of the living.

I smile in spite of everything and think, _'Serves him right for calling me fat.'_

Later John and I will go to the house to see if I can pick up any vibrations, get any readings on the thing that killed Mary Winchester. But for now, the Winchesters have found their way back to each other and that'll have to be enough.

_The End_.


End file.
